


When Sherlock Met Mary

by The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting



Series: When Sherlock Met Mary [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, M/M, Multi, Rough Sex, The Empty Hearse Spoilers, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, oh look I accidently ot3ed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loving John would be so much easier if Sherlock could simply hate Mary. But he just can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Sherlock Met Mary

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as, that time my hand slipped and I blinked and when I looked again I'd written a whole bloody fic. I know this will all be null and void as soon as episode two airs, but it does say AU, for a reason.  
> I accidentally OT3ed.

It would be easier, so much easier, if Sherlock could simply hate Mary. If she had been dull, uninteresting or even simply normal, like all the rest of John’s girlfriends, then he could have simply dismissed her. But she was not. She had seen John at his darkest and most desperate, and had taken it in her stride. She had heard John speak of Sherlock, of the good times and the bad, and had simply said “I wish I could have met him” and “I bet I’d have liked him”. John had told Sherlock so, as though defending her against the same instant assumption Mary herself had broken down within minutes of actually meeting Sherlock.

Actually meeting is an entirely different thing to merely wishing it. Sherlock knows he is not the most likable of people. And yet she does like him. And he can’t help but like her. She’s clever, and funny. Sherlock starts his explanation and she understands the why, if not the how, quicker than John. She finishes a sentence of Sherlock’s and he’s thrown momentarily. Sherlock takes the piss out of John’s moustache and she sides with Sherlock. She promises she’ll talk to John.

She’s a nurse at the same surgery John works at. Not nearly as squeamish or silly as Sherlock might have feared. She knows about skip codes. She’s already solved the text when she comes to Sherlock. She’s saved them minuets and minutes are what they need right then.  Despite the panic building inside her, the same panic coursing through Sherlock, she keeps her head. She reads him the texts. She doesn’t scream as they hurtle down pedestrian streets, merely holds his waist tighter as they plunge down steps. He’s glad she doesn’t scream. He might have to leave her behind if she did and he doesn’t have the time. And he needs her.

Sherlock slips into one of his dark days. She and John both stay over. She takes it in turns with John to cook and to coerce him in to eating.

There’s a case, a murder, and instead of complaining about John’s absence, trying to monopolize his time, she joins them. She doesn’t even flinch at the sight of a dead body. She can keep up. She and Sherlock work well together. They bounce ideas off each other, throwing ideas back and forth. John sits watching them, his head turning first one way, then the other, like a spectator at a tennis match.

“At what point did I become the third wheel here?” John grumbles, interrupting their flow. Mary smiles apologetically and sits down beside him, rubbing his arm.

“Sorry.” She says. “Getting carried away.” Both men recognize that spark in her eyes, the edge of excitement in her voice. She’s hooked.

Yes, it would be easier if Sherlock could hate her. It would be helpful if Sherlock could have someone left living whom he could blame this on, other than himself. But he can’t. She’s too much like him for Sherlock to hate her. Sherlock wonders if John realizes he’s developed a type.

He thought at first maybe John really had forgotten, or was doing his best to at any rate. That would have made things easier too. But sobbing in a train carriage that’s actually a bomb and the look in John’s eyes as he forgives Sherlock, lets him know he never could forget. John doesn’t run, and faces death with Sherlock one more time

“Of course I forgive you.” John’s voice is soft and the way he’s looking at Sherlock lets Sherlock that this is his way of saying something else entirely.

He thinks John might kiss him then, in what he thinks will be the last moments of his life, and that might just ruin everything, so Sherlock laughs instead.

It’s really too late for them. Sherlock knows that. First he was too early, with John not ready to accept what they had. And now he’s too late. Only it’s not.

They fuck the night of John’s stag do. Sherlock knows before it happens that John might well blame it all on Sherlock, or at the very least, the alcohol. But they both know that neither of them is as drunk as they might pretend. And it’s John, it really is, who brushes his fingers over Sherlock’s. Just as it’s Sherlock who edges closer to him in the bar than is necessary. John who doesn’t move away.

It is both of them who kiss, with a synchronicity only they could achieve. The lean in is mutual, the deepening shared. Sherlock bites at John’s lips, desperation and desire. John slips his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and tugs at his hair, frustration and relief. When they part, Sherlock whispers a constant mantra of “Remember, John. Remember”. And John responds with hisses of “yes, yes”. Sherlock’s asking him to remember months of looks, and almost touches, and not quite embraces. Months of “I’m not his date” and “I’m not gay” and “we’re not a couple” and “yes you are”.

John does protest, once, as they back one another towards the bedroom. It’s like a chase, a dance, skirting around each other for so long and now finally, _finally_ touching. Shoes and coats and clothes littered as debris in their wake. It’s there, somewhere between the living room and the bedroom, with Sherlock pressed against the wall, John’s knee pressed between his legs, that John falters. His hands stop their incessant tugging at Sherlock’s belt and his lips still. He leans back, fractionally, letting their foreheads rest against each other’s.

“This isn’t fair, Sherlock.” He whispers. Sherlock wants to shout that none of this is fair. Fair would have been this happening years ago. Fair would be no Moriarty. But Moriarty’s web, the taxi driver case, that was the only reason any of this was possible at all. No, fair would be no rooftop, no jump and this happening two years ago instead. But that would mean no Mary. And that’s not fair either.

Sherlock starts to pull away too. He has no interest in pressuring John to do something he doesn’t wish to. John’s hand is suddenly in his hair again, a tight fist, almost, but not quite, painful enough for Sherlock to cry out.

“Don’t you bloody dare.” John hisses, kissing Sherlock again. He doesn’t protest again.

They continue their path to the bedroom. John sucks and nibbles at Sherlock’s neck, his tongue hot and distracting as Sherlock lays back on the bed. Sherlock at least has the decency to not repay the favour and leave a lasting mark. It would not do for the groom to develop unexplained love bites on the eve of his wedding.

Sherlock’s experience of sex is limited. Previously it has been kept merely to experimentation for the purpose of needed data. Twice. Once with a man, once with a woman. Neither was anything like this. John fucks him hard, digging his thumbs into Sherlock’s hips and leaving bruises. He uses his grip to angle into Sherlock’s body better, hitting that sweet spot inside of him that rips a half scream from his lips.

“God, that _sound_.” John’s eyes are half-lidded, his voice thick with lust, as he pulls out nearly completely and slams home once more. “That’s just beautiful.”

If Sherlock had been in any doubt about whether or not John has done this before, now he knows for sure. _Not gay, my foot,_ he thinks. Then again, John never did say he was straight, just that he wasn’t gay, and Mary is proof positive of that.

Sherlock wants to ask John if he’s this rough when he sleeps with Mary, but even he can see now’s not the time.

Afterwards they lie side by side, damp with sweat, spent. Their shoulders are touching. They’re breathing in time. John lets out a giggle and turns to look at Sherlock side on. He kisses the other man’s shoulder and mumbles against his skin.

“I really hope Mrs Hudson didn’t hear any of that.”

Sherlock laughs too.

“She’s out.” He reassures John. John just snorts.

“You know, when I told her I was getting engaged, she still thought I was gay.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“Well…”he starts.

“Oh shut up.”

 

They’re silent the next day, as they get ready for the wedding. Sherlock has his speech prepared and committed to memory. He’ll leave out the part where John is marrying a woman despite the fact he’s completely in love with a man.

Sherlock adjusts john’s tie for him and they’re so close they’re breathing the same air. John reaches up a hand and dips his fingers below the line of Sherlock’s collar, touching the mark he made the night before.

“Don’t.” Sherlock surprises himself even as he’s saying it. “Don’t…John. Not now.”

John shakes his head.

“Do you want me to choose, Sherlock, is that it?” He keeps his hand still, doesn’t retract it.

“We both know you’ve already chosen.” Sherlock steps away with a force of will he didn’t know he had.

“We both know I can’t possibly.” Says John.

 

The wedding goes ahead. This isn’t some romantic fairy tale. It’s not like Sherlock was expecting them to elope. But when they’re asked if there are any objections, he feels like it’s being said directly to him.  John meets his gaze, mingled of fear and pleading. Sherlock can’t do that to John. Or Mary.

Sherlock dances with Mary at the reception, while John is busy talking to some distant relatives. Even Sherlock can appreciate how beautiful Mary looks tonight as they move slowly across the floor. Radiant, is the word he has heard used for brides. Maybe there is something in it after all. Mary wraps her arms around his neck.

“Thank you.” She whispers, resting her head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “For the speech. It must have been difficult for you.”

More difficult than she can possibly imagine.

 

That should be the end of it. John is married and he has chosen, no matter what he says to the contrary. But he comes to Sherlock again, and again, and _again_. While Mary is working. While Mary is with friends.  He tells Sherlock more than once that he just can’t help himself. Sherlock knows exactly what he means. He finds himself increasingly unable to control his own body.

 

Mary knows. Of course she does. She lives with john. She sees Sherlock every day. She’s too brilliant not to know. Sherlock’s suspected she might for a while but then she comes right out and asks them. They’re in the kitchen at Baker Street, John and Mary sat at the table drinking tea, Sherlock stood by the sink, mug in hand. Mary blows cool air over the surface of her tea then looks between them both.

“So, were you ever planning on telling me?” she asks. “About you two?” Neither of them responds but John’s eyes go wide with concern. He’s not a great actor. Sherlock thinks he should be the one to answer.

“About what?”

“The two of you” Mary repeats. “Shagging.” She sips her tea calmly.

John nearly drops his mug. He splutters and stammers. “No! Mary, we’re not…” John looks so stricken Sherlock realises he’s going to have to be the one to take the bullet here.

“Mary,” he starts. “Maybe I should explain,” but that’s as far as he ever gets. Mary silences them both with a single look. Not with its harshness or anger, but because her face is gentle, and she’s smiling.

“You don’t need to explain anything.” She gives her shoulders an elegant shrug, still smiling. “I know.”

“Y-you do?” John. Sherlock would never stutter.

“Of course.” Mary places her mug down and takes her husband’s hand in hers. “Look, I knew long before we got married that I wasn’t just marrying you. And it’s fine.”

“It’s…fine?” Sherlock this time. John is gaping, apparently beyond words.

“Yes. Surprised myself a little bit. But yes. It’s _all_ fine.”

            All three of them are silent for a long time after that. They go back to sipping their tea in silence. Sherlock slumps against the counter top. After a while Mary gently kicks the remaining chair out from under the table and gestures for Sherlock to sit. He complies. The three of them keep glancing at each other only to hastily look away again when their eyes meet. Mary is the first to finish her tea. She sets her cup down with a definite clunk. It’s almost enough to make Sherlock jump. He becomes aware of Mary’s foot, touching his beneath the table. Her shoe toe to toe with his.

            She brushes her hand against Sherlock’s, still not quite looking at him. The exact same movement John used in the bar. Mary’s fingernails are painted pale pink that day. Her touch is feather light. Testing the waters. Sherlock moves his own hand unperceivably closer.

            Sherlock knows this could be the start of something. But hell if he knows what.


End file.
